Pet Names
by laratoncita
Summary: Stop trying to be cute. Drabble collection, not canon compliant.
1. Pet Names

"Can I call you Miss Irpa?" the Emissary-in-Training asked her, and her eyes flashed yellow.

"No," she said to him, but his mind was already made up.

"Miss Irpa," he cooed, and leaned in close to steal a kiss. She brought a hand up to smack that ridiculously full mouth of his shut, but he just fluttered his lashes at her, catching her hand in his to bestow her a kiss to her knuckles.

"You'll make a useless emissary," the newly-christened Miss Irpa said to him, and he smiled with his bright teeth and laughed.

"And you'll be sleeping with one," he said, "Miss Irpa. That flows so much nicer than your name."

"I'm never referring to you as your real name again," she said, and he shrugged.

"Good. I can't even pronounce it," and finally stole the kiss he was after.


	2. Princess & the Boy

"Is that so, Big Boy?" Lydia says, and Aiden gives her a look so devastated she has to smile.

"You like me," he insists, and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm not having this conversation again," she drawls, and glances at her nails. They're painted pink, so light the color of her nail bed is a barely tinted shade. Her reflection in the window doesn't have as much as a smudge, his shirt still unbuttoned.

"Babe," he says, and she cuts him off with a simple glance over her shoulder.

"Don't," she says, delicate, "call me babe. I'm not your babe. I'm not your girlfriend. So! Don't. Call me. Babe."

"Babe," he says again, but this time he smirks. She wonders whether his brother has the same smile. He's probably much better in every way. "Can I call you princess, Princess?" he asks her, and she says with as chipper a tone, "I will make your life hell."

"Okay," he says, but he's laughing already, clothes cleaned up and hair artfully tousled. "Later, Princess," and when he walks out without another word she slams a palm on the counter top in front of her. Bites her lip and smiles.


	3. Animal Magnetism

He's not sure how to explain what she just saw, but then she says, "Wait, you're a werewolf?" and he feels like he's mostly off the hook.

"Uh," he says, and she raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

They're silent a moment before she says, "How—that explains—wait, you have to tell me everything."

He blinks at her, "What, now?"

"Of course!" she exclaims, hands coming up to frame her temples. Her red shirt rides up, jean jacket too, and he says, "I'm the alpha?" like a question.

She quiets. "Wow," she finally says, "is that why you're trying to fight off Bardo?"

"I mean, kind of," he says, "but not exactly."

"Alpha McCall," she says thoughtfully, quietly, and glances at him shyly.

"Oh no," he says, hands raised up, "no, it's not like that."

"Come on," she says, "it sounds good."

"But what can I call you, then?" he asks, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. He stretches, and her eyes follow the pull of his orange shirt.

"Kira?" she says, eyebrows furrowed and vaguely confused, and he shakes his head.

"I like how 'Fox' sounds," he tells her, and she groans.

"That's terrible," she says, "I'm not a stripper." He laughs.

"I like it," he insists, and she smiles.

"Fine. But only if you tell me more about this werewolf business."

He feels a grin tugging at his mouth. "Sure."


	4. Family Bonding

"You're a diva," Cora stresses, and Peter rolls his eyes.

"You're brother is a sad pile of tragedies. And?"

Cora scowls at him, "Listen, I don't care what you do—"

"Except for how you _do_," Peter says, and smirks when she falls silent, still glaring at him. "Look, missy," he says, and laughs at her expression; "you think I don't know? Your pet names are stupid, of course, but it's cute, that you two think you're in love."

"What are you planning?" she says, taking a step closer to him, hands fisted in the leather jacket she stole from Derek.

"Don't worry about it," Peter says, "I'm just having my fun. I _am_ a diva, after all."

"Mister Diva," Cora says mockingly, "_God_, I hate you."

"And we hate Derek," Peter says with finality, "suck it up. What I'm doing won't hurt anyone. Much."

"I know better than to believe you," she says.

"And _that_," he answers, "is why you're the Irpa to my Diva, no?"


	5. Boogeyman

"You are not a good man," she says, and he throws his head back, laughing.

"Oh," he says, "_princess_. Did you think I ever really cared about that? About you? About _anyone_ else?"

"You're a _monster_," she says, and he sobers, straightening to look at her. His eyes are dead.

"Fair enough," he says coldly, and advances on her with slow, calculated steps. She backs up, always too close to him. "But I _made_ you, little girl," he says, in her space, his cologne in her nose and his skin giving off heat; "don't you know what that _means_?"


	6. Mujer

one.  
>"Would you believe me," Cora says, fingers warm in the cavern of his chest. He stares at her, barely able to see the yellow of her eyes but oh, he can feel it, she knows he can, and she curls her palm around his stuttering heart. "Would you believe me," she repeats, "if I told you I was the good daughter?" and then she smiles as she digs her nails in, pulls her hand straight out to see the light fade from the hunter's eyes, his heart warm and tacky in her hand.<p>

two.  
>"I would do far worse than kill," Derek's wife says, and Isaac stands in front of her daughters so they don't catch the half-flash of yellow, blue, red, as she stares down the men in front of them, "when it comes to my family," so they can't watch the way her clawed fingers come down, swift.<p>

three.  
>Cora slams Allison up against a tree, says, "By the time you started training, I had over ten years under my belt," and grins when the woman spits out, "Rematch,"after being pinned to the mossy ground, Scott shouting in the background and the scent of arousal heavy in the air.<p>

four.  
>Derek tells her, "I need an heir," and she'll remember that, let it flow over her when the wife says it back to him one day years later as he tries to convince her to stay, "Don't stand there and tell me you married me for love."<p>

five.  
>"It's not that," Laura says. "I trust you," Laura says. "It's Derek," Laura says. "I don't trust him."<p> 


	7. The Breakup

"I can't do this anymore," Cora says, and Stiles says, "What," like he can't believe his ears. He can't believe his ears.

"I need to—I need to be here for Derek."

"What?" he says again. She ignores him.

"The baby's coming soon, so he'll need some help—"

"They've survived far worse than parenthood—"

"Don't," she says, and finally turns to look at him. She's in an oversized black hoodie that must be Derek's, though the werewolf in them has always made it so that all clothes belongs to everyone. It might be Scott's, for all he knows. Stiles looks up at her, from where he's sitting on the couch, and then stands up.

"Cora," he says, cautious, and he sees that fire light up in her eyes, that anger that comes with being treated as anything less than unbreakable. He knows better. "Cora," he says again, "what are you doing?"

"I can't," she says again, teeth gritting, a flash of pink tongue as she struggles to get the words out, "do this. Anymore."

Stiles feels that same anger bubble up in him, can't really hold back, says, "Are you _kidding—_"

"This isn't about you, about us—"

"—how is it _not_ about—Jesus fucking Christ—"

"—Stiles, you act like—"

"—how am I supposed to act when—"

"—you're infuriating, they were right you know—"

"—pot meet kettle, Cora, you think it's ever been _easy_? I—"

"—so _fucking_ selfish—"

"—and it's not about me, okay—"

"—I have other—"

"—nearly _four_ years—"

"—He's all I have left—"

"He's _not_." The words are heavy between them. Cora looks at him with blank eyes.

"This has been a long time coming," she says, and her voice is rough from the yelling.

"Goddamn it," Stiles says, and puts both hands on his head.


	8. GirlsGirlsGirls

It's later, while they're still laughing from too much wine and a story about Scott in grade school, that Allison feels the breath whoosh out of her as Lydia presses their mouths together. It's a brief kiss, and they pull apart, pause, before Lydia leans in again. Somehow they're falling against each other in a swirl of hormones and expensive clothes (Lydia) and cheap sheets (Allison). It's just hot breath and giggles and skin for miles, mouths slick against each other as each breath pulls and pushes them together, apart.

When Allison wakes up the next morning, Lydia is gone, and the only evidence that she was there to start with is the smudge of lipstick on Allison's collarbone.


	9. Want

_Post-GirlsGirlsGirls._

* * *

><p>Hong Kong is nice. Allison finds the cleanest hotel she can find and holes herself up there, silently cursing the day she let Scott convince her watching Contagion was a good idea. Now all she can think of when she sees the masks everyone wears is bats and Minnesota and scientists buried like peasants.<p>

Stiles comes to visit her.

"Hey," he says when they meet outside his hostel, and she throws her arms around him like they're friends and not just two people forced to share Scott. She's never quite figured out what they were before she came along, before the werewolf business, but they only ever shrug; for them, it's only ever been brotherhood. That's all it ever could be, with AllisonLydiaCoraKira and the thousand other people that filter in and out of their lives like it's nothing.

And Allison wants a little sliver of that too, of that closeness that Scott guards like a talisman between he and Stiles, because for some reason she says, "Which is your room?" grabbing one of his bags and hefting it over a shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at her and grins, a fleeting delicate thing that shows off his dimples and makes her heart stutter. Whether it's with affection or loss is debatable, but he makes a show of bowing and sweeping an arm out, and she giggles when he says, voice pitched low, "After you, _mademoiselle_ Argent."

She tries to tell herself the warmth in the pit of her belly is just mid-cycle cramps but then he smiles again, the tiny one that Cora was only ever able to pull out, sharp and quick when they glanced at each other. It hadn't lasted long, whatever connection the two of them had had, but it was something strong enough that she was still able to laugh when he made a fool out of himself and he wasn't afraid to touch her. Allison _wants_, suddenly and fiercely, and it's all she can do not to just drop his bags and turn their walking to running, so she can take and take and take—

"Here it is," he says, and when he opens the door she sees white walls, specks of color on the ceiling, and then Stiles' eyes wide and consuming as she presses herself against him, door falling shut with a thunk as they hit the floor.

* * *

><p>He manages to drag a blanket over the two of them at some point, something thin but warm. She's rolled over on her belly, Stiles' breathing over her right shoulder soothing her as she pillows her head on her crossed arms. The blanket lies somewhere near his waist, her back exposed and he runs his fingers over her shoulder blades, making her want to keen and arch and maybe go for another round or two. She rolls onto him when his fingernails scrape, scowling in what must be sexual frustration because he just grins at her, arms coming up to wrap around her waist.<p>

"Hi," he says, cheeky grin in place as always, and she ducks to kiss his nose because, why not? He makes a face at her before letting his head fall back, exposing his neck to her, and maybe she's been with werewolves for too long because she presses her nose there, to the delicate veins and arteries hidden between his too-thin skin and just breathes, lets herself melt against him as if he were Scott or Isaac or _anyone_, and she the version of Lydia he thought he had loved.


	10. Motivation

You weren't even _good_ at lacrosse.

You tried out less because you wanted companionship than because you thought that maybe your father would finally think it was enough. You wanted to believe that all you needed was to become _something_, and everything would change. Between your mother's death and Camden's, your father's world shrunk down to you and for some reason, it ended up being everything and nothing he needed. Wanted.

But you tried out, because by this point there was nothing left to lose. Not love or care or affection; just you and an empty field.


	11. Parallels

_one._

She falls in love in a way that only teenage girls have mastered. Then again, Stiles did the same thing with Lydia so maybe Erica shouldn't be so cruel.

Because let's be honest—Stiles was her world from the time she was twelve to the time she was sixteen. It's a classic situation.

She almost falls for Derek, too, but that's because of the rush he gives her. She wants to love him because he _made_ her, but it's not enough.

But with Boyd? He tried to save her. It's only fair that their love binds them.

* * *

><p><em>two.<em>

She's gone and it _hurts_. There won't be another girl like Erica. Where else do you find a person who was ready to throw herself into the fire if only to prove that she could?

Nothing worked out for Boyd before, and he was a fool to think it would work out afterward. Now, _now_ he's stuck with Derek anyway, and this time it's without his partner-in-crime. He can't do it, almost doesn't want to, but then he sees the twins, grinning, and that burn, that _need_ to avenge her–

It drives him towards another day.


	12. Rabbits

She used to eat _rabbits_. Used to survive on rotted food and sleep in the twisted roots of Redwoods, with nothing more than filched jackets and mismatched socks to wear. It's nasty, it's degrading, and Cora let herself fall. Hurt. Suffer. She allowed this hate fester inside her until it haunted her in her sleep, when all she could see was smoke, all she smelled was Peter burning, when all she remembered was running into the forest and not stopping, so afraid that she almost missed the faintest scent of Derek on one of the women who lit the match.


	13. i just want to say

stiles gets exactly one night with cora.

she's pale skin and haunted eyes, and when he tries to pull away before anything-anything-happens. she catches him by the wrist. her eyes glow yellow in the darkness of his room.

"your dad's alive?" she says. it's too nonchalant; he's got a naked cora hale in his bed and a tired father across the hall in his own room. it's perhaps an hour before the sun rises, and he's exhausted. he didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep though, and he was right; the potential for nightmares is too much. but he wasn't expecting to find her there, especially not-not like this.

"yeah," he says, and he stares at a fixed spot along her earlobe. "what are you doing." he's too tired for this.

she doesn't answer him. instead, she leans up, kneeling on his bed. he tilts his head, so that he's looking at his pillow rather than her. closes his eyes. he feels her hand-the same one holding his wrists-slide up his forearm, before it moves to grip his hand firmly. she guides it to her chest, waist, the warm V of her thighs.

his fingers flatten against her hip.

"stiles," she breathes, and when she tugs him towards her he goes.

she's impossibly warm. soft, too, which surprises him. her arms are tight around his shoulders, her face ducked against his neck. the noises she makes are too similar to whimpers for him to get lost in them, and that's probably why he manages to bring her off first, one hand between them so that he can touch her as intimately as she seems to want.

there's a condom wrapper on the floor, probably farther than the garbage can than he meant to throw it. she hadn't told him to use one; he's done with making mistakes, however. she sighs against him, afterwards, pulling him half on top of her once he's done away with the condom. one of her legs crooks over his.

stiles waits a beat before asking, "are you okay?" and she stares at the ceiling.

"you saved my life," she says. another moment. "we're leaving, soon."

something curdles up inside of him, goes cold and hard and heart-breaking. "oh," he says, and she turns her head to look at him. they blink at each other, stiles fighting off tears, and then she's got a hand on his chest, rolling so that her thighs straddle his waist and he's flat on his back.

"i don't ever want to come back," she says, and he glances from her left hand to her right, bracketing his head. he brings his gaze up, glancing at the slope of her breastbone from this angle, the soft swell of her breasts, the tendons in her neck that are straining. he cracks a smile.

"kiss me," he barely whispers, and she does, even if the words were just a croak in his throat.


	14. little clown, my heart

_originally posted 25 august 2015 on tumblr. all is (c) to their respective creators/owners/etc._

* * *

><p>Little clown, my heart,<br>Spangled again and lopsided,  
>Handstands and Pekin pirouettes,<br>Backflips snapping open…  
>[cisneros]<p>

* * *

><p>She wears Manolo Blahnik to the funeral. Tradi. Purple on gold. Her dress is black, high collar, makeup delicately applied so as to look as natural as possible. Her hair in loose curls, and she wonders if it would look like Allison's did if it were black instead of red.<p>

She didn't bother asking if she could borrow the car – took it anyway. Most likely her mother had forgotten the wake and funeral were today.

Allison is really gone.

"Lydia," Stiles says, after they finally lay her to rest, while the soil is still soft over her coffin, as Lydia is remembering how the pressure of dirt on steel can still cause cracks – she looks at him. No doubt the concealer couldn't hide the bags under her eyes, she thinks, because Stiles flinches, drops his gaze to the cemetery grass between them.

"What," she says, and his eyes meet hers again before settling somewhere around her ear. She's wearing amethyst and gold. She feels like a goddess. She feels like an empty husk. More than anything, she is tired.

He opens his mouth, closes it. Makes eye contact. Opens it again. She says, "Stiles, if you ask me if I'm okay I am going to scream. And you will _not _be able to stop me."

His mouth closes. Her nostrils flare, his gaze dipping to her bared shoulders (fashion faux-pas, of course) to her feet (his eyebrows raise as he finally takes notice of the too-bright shoes; thousands of dollars in accessories while his suit jacket strains across his shoulders), back up to her waist, breasts, mouth.

She has the sudden, vicious urge to gauge his eyes out.

The sentiment is definitely reflected in her gaze but he doesn't cringe when their eyes meet again, bites his mouth like he's nervous. She's always loved making boys uncomfortable, but now it's for a different reason. It shouldn't be hard to break Stiles down, she thinks to herself. Tilts her head. Looks up at him through her eyelashes like he's her usual type of prey.

Men have never been so repulsive, and she used to think she loved Jackson. God knows Stiles was practically stalking her at some point. God knows she could use a break from the horror story her life has become.

"You know," she says, once they've been stewing in silence for three, four, five minutes, "I was never a fan of magical realism. Or sci-fi. Or thrillers. I _hated _it. The boys always thought those stories were great, wonderful, even. I only liked _The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon_, or _All Summer in a Day_. Everything else was just, oh, I don't know," and her lip curls, she takes a step forward, "it all felt like some _idiot's_ dirty fantasy. I can appreciate Leia in a bikini, sure, but I didn't need the fucking chains, you know? I didn't need the guys calling me fake, but I got that anyway."

He starts to say something, something like her name or like the words _stop_, or _enough_, or maybe even an apology, but she cuts him off, takes another step, close enough that his breath warms her face. "I don't care," she says, "I don't care. It was all my fault anyway, I guess. She asked me about it once, why I was going after every person with a dick after Jackson and I didn't even have an answer. I do now, but what does it matter? I was – I _am _selfish. And _hateful_, and bitter, and a _slut_, I fucked every guy in the county except for you and if it weren't for that girl of yours you would still be wondering why."

"Lydia – "

"Shut _up_," she hisses, "just shut up. God. She's dead. She's dead, it doesn't matter, she's _dead _I _told _you this would happen, I could have _stopped _this but you all decided to follow me _anyway_, I could have figured something else, I would have saved us and instead I had to feel her die, I loved her and now she's dead I loved her I _loved _– "

She cuts herself off, voice too high, and raises a shaking hand as if to touch him. Stiles' eyes are huge as they watch her. Her hand falls back to her side, both clenched into fists tight enough to make her knuckles whiten. His skin is paper thin from where she's standing. "It's all our fault. We were weak." The words leave her quietly, like the earth sinking into itself. She sways on her feet.

Stiles takes a step back. And then another, and then another, and then he says, "Lydia," like a prayer, like an apology, and Lydia almost lunges, but her mother raised a lady and she can't do it anymore.

"I loved her," she says again, voice finally cracking, and when she reaches out to Stiles he meets her halfway, and the fire on her tongue turns to ash, even if she feels she deserved to lose the battle instead.


End file.
